It’s that old “Why is it?” thing again. Why is it that my paternal grandfather had the most luxurious mane of white hair? My maternal grandmother had quite a scalpful as well. My mother is noted for her cap of curls, the color depending on which product is used to enhance the effect of gray highlights—usually an ash blond. Don’t know about her dad, though. As kids we were blessed with an abundance of hair.

But, my paternal grandmother has none. Or rather, not much to speak of. As a child, she had stunning brown hair to her ankles. I know, I saw it! Before it was cut off, it was braided and secured. She has it to this day. It’s about four feet long. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t have any now. At least that’s my theory. The weight, you know. Pulled it out!

Except for one thing... my dad is losing his, and darned if I didn’t inherit the pleasure of watching my carefully coiffed bits drop off onto my computer keyboard. I could stuff a pillow if this keeps up.

To my grandmother’s credit (she’s still alive at 97) she is quite the elegant lady. Still dresses up in proper dress, gloves, hat, hose, shoes—the whole nine yards, Victorian_style, before she leaves the front door. And here’s the secret. She wears a hat. A quite fashionable hat.

Maybe I should do what my grandmother does. Wear a hat. As it live in Vermont, I do wear hats. But only when it’s cold outside. Otherwise, this thinning collection of hair does not keep my poor scalp warm.

But my family hates my hats. I think they hide them. There is a hat conspiracy in my house. My favorite hats just disappear. Vanish. I’m bereft. When I land on a hat I love, it survives one season. Maybe.

Personally, I don’t care what I look like in a hat. As long as it does what it is supposed to do. Warm my poor head... and keep the ever encroaching snow out of my face. My last stupendous hat did just that. It was a “top hat” of fleece that when pulled down with it’s big, big floppy brim, kept the snow off my neck, out of my glasses and kept my head quite warm. How can you beat that?

OK, I was laughed at. But I was noticed. Everyone knew me, even from a distance. Put my family off. “Don’t go near Mom, she looks ridiculous!” “We don’t know her...” They would walk behind me and giggle. Or perhaps cringe if others showed the remotest interest in my chapeau.

But, hey, that just covers a few months of the year. What about warm weather? No hat to hide the lack. And the hairstyle just doesn’t quite hold. There isn’t enough!

I could wear a wig. There is one somewhere in my house (that trap of mother’s_wear, that insidious blackhole). I suppose that I could clean the place and maybe find stuff. But that requires too much time off from work. I would wear the wig as a giggle when I had waist_length auburn hair and wanted to fool people into thinking I only had short hair. Even met a new set of friends that way. Ann saw me pull off the wig and all my real hair fell down (almost said “out!”). Then I looked like her younger sister. (OK, this was in an Irish pub...in my youth.) We tried the stunt again on her husband, scared him to shivers. But I can’t find the wig.

I have to hand it to my classy grandmother. No matter what, she is always well_coifed and well turned_out. Even if it is just those few strands neatly combed and swirled into place. These things just don’t bother her. Maybe it is her personal history. What’s a little hair loss compared to surviving a revolution and escaping with just the clothes on her back? And what hair she does have is enough to enhance the effect of the hat. There is enough (just barely) to stick out from said hat and fool the audience that it is more. She’s one classy dame.

Maybe I should emulate her a bit more. Ignore the obvious and play with what I do have. I still have more than she does. Just swirl it up, give it a kiss and a pat and continue on with life.

What a concept!